Far Country, a — Volume 2 eBook

Colonel Varney, as he accompanied me to the train,
did not conceal his jubilation.

“Perhaps I ought not to say it, Mr. Paret, but
it couldn’t have been done neater. That’s
the art in these little affairs, to get ’em runnin’
fast, to get momentum on ’em before the other
party wakes up, and then he can’t stop ’em.”
As he shook hands in farewell he added, with more gravity:
“We’ll see each other often, sir, I guess.
My very best regards to Mr. Watling.”

Needless to say, I had not confided to him the part
I had played in originating House Bill No. 709, now
a law of the state. But as the train rolled on
through the sunny winter landscape a sense of well-being,
of importance and power began to steal through me.
I was victoriously bearing home my first scalp,—­one
which was by no means to be despised.... It was
not until we reached Rossiter, about five o’clock,
that I was able to get the evening newspapers.
Such was the perfection of the organization of which
I might now call myself an integral part that the
“best” publications contained only the
barest mention,—­and that in the legislative
news,—­of the signing of the bill. I
read with complacency and even with amusement the
flaring headlines I had anticipated in Mr. Lawler’s
‘Pilot.’

“The Governor Signs It!”

“Special legislation, forced through by the
Railroad Lobby, which will drive honest corporations
from this state.”

“Ribblevale Steel Company the Victim.”

It was common talk in the capital, the article went
on to say, that Theodore Watling himself had drawn
up the measure.... Perusing the editorial page
my eye fell on the name, Krebs. One member of
the legislature above all deserved the gratitude of
the people of the state,—­the member from
Elkington. “An unknown man, elected in spite
of the opposition of the machine, he had dared to
raise his voice against this iniquity,” etc.,
etc.

We had won. That was the essential thing.
And my legal experience had taught me that victory
counts; defeat is soon forgotten. Even the discontented,
half-baked and heterogeneous element from which the
Pilot got its circulation had short memories.

XI.

The next morning, which was Sunday, I went to Mr.
Watling’s house in, Fillmore Street—­a
new residence at that time, being admired as the dernier
cri in architecture. It had a mediaeval look,
queer dormers in a steep roof of red tiles, leaded
windows buried deep in walls of rough stone.
Emerging from the recessed vestibule on a level with
the street were the Watling twins, aglow with health,
dressed in identical costumes of blue. They had
made their bow to society that winter.